do not use their time in vain:
each, an aeon song, beginningless
so without end, resting
each on each as they sleep
a dry summer sleep, dissolve
in autumn rains, create precisely
over winter the spring soil
they need to deepen down
and rise in roots, travel miles
to branch tip and reach, open,
eat light, breathe, give shape
to the hills in black-green
pointillisms where they
release into space and fall
through the air they make,
always already becoming